


a fire in my hands

by aliveanddrunkonsunlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jaime POV, POV Jaime Lannister, Sandor being Snarky, season 7 departure, wight hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 10:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20208370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliveanddrunkonsunlight/pseuds/aliveanddrunkonsunlight
Summary: Departure from season 7. Jaime and Brienne join the search party to capture a wight.Death from him, in him, around him.The smell of them--the Others--sends him straight back to King’s Landing, to when he was young and naive and the men’s cries echoed in the Throne Room as the fire burned through their breastplates, then the horrid, acrid stench as their flesh melted away. It makes his eyes sting and shrink back inward towards his skull.Inside his chest, his heart swells and aches. Her name is the only word filling him. Brienne. If not for her, the thought of her, he might have laid down his sword. They’re surrounded. But no one was ever more worth fighting for. More worth staying alive for. Though he had never said it. Why hadn’t he told her?





	a fire in my hands

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to pastequefolle and trulily for sketching this out with me and super special thanks to tru for her editing skills and suggestions!

The darkness of the dungeons of the Red Keep are momentarily illuminated by Bronn’s torch. A small statured man stands near the dragon skeleton. Jaime’s whole body goes rigid, his hand clenching at his side. Coming to King’s Landing is a sure death for Tyrion. His brother is a lot of things, but he’s never been stupid.  


“What are you  _ doing _ ? Do you want Cersei to string you up and shoot you with a crossbow herself? Because she would if she knew you were--” He gestures to where his brother is standing.  


“It’s good to see you, too, brother,” Tyrion replies, rather cavalierly. He has no way to know Jaime wouldn’t kill him upon sight. “I see you are ever our good sister’s servant, although you are loathe to carry out her actions. It may be the one reason I’ve lived this long.”

_ If our father lived _ , he thinks,  _ if you hadn’t killed him, I would be in Casterly Rock. Far away from here. _ The Rock was never something Jaime wanted, but if it meant being away from King’s Landing, out from under Cersei’s oppressive thumb, it might have made him happier than the life he currently led. He cannot let his brother see how close those comments strike at what he has been feeling lately.  


Tyrion looks up into his brother’s eyes. “This war is no longer about houses and family loyalty. It is about a threat far greater.”  


Jaime listens as Tyrion tells him of the Others. Normally he might have laughed and called his brother a fool for believing all those old stories their maester told them as children, but he’s seen the dragons at the Goldenroad. Dragons which burned most of his men. A heat travels up the back of his neck. The same he always feels when there’s a battle to fight.  


“You say there’s already been an alliance formed. Between whom?”  


A sad look passes across his brother’s face. He already knows Jaime is unlikely to join their fold. “Daenerys. And the King of the North.”  


Jaime scoffs. “I see the bastard has no qualms bending the knee to the daughter of a man who let his grandfather burn and his uncle choke to death.”

“We need your help,” Tyrion implores, ”or no one will win this war.” The sharp words Jaime was prepared to say die on his tongue. “If we don’t defeat them in the North, they will march south. If our dear sister does not care about the Dragon Queen, mayhaps she will care when they threaten her family, her children.”  


“They’re gone. Myrcella and Tommen.” Tyrion looks stricken, but Jaime doesn’t want his pity. “Cersei will not believe it until a creature is standing in front of her.”  


“Which is precisely our plan. Bring a wight to her. It may be the only way she will send men, supplies. Though she’ll believe it more coming from your own lips--if you’re the one to go. You have to speak with her.”  


_ Cersei doesn’t listen to me anymore.  _ “Who is in this search party?”  


“So far, only Jon Snow and Ser Jorah Mormont. Jon is looking for others.”  


“Brothers of the Night’s Watch, most likely. Wonderful,” Jaime replies sarcastically.  


Tyrion clears his throat. “Lady Sansa has tasked Brienne of Tarth to join as well.” 

_ Brienne. _   


Jaime’s mouth goes dry. He struggles to swallow the lump in his throat, wanting to ask after her. “I’ll...consider it.”  


His brother nods. “I should go. But remember, there is honor and duty outside of your family.” Jaime watches him disappear into the bowels of the Red Keep, same as he had the night he freed him.

*   


For several nights, a deep swooping worry seizes his chest, waking him. It is too late, he knows, to fear what Cersei would do. Too late to imagine what she might say, if she found out. He has given his word, and he wants his word to mean something.   


*

He leaves in the early hours before daybreak, creeping down the long halls of the Keep, his boots under his arm, only slipping them on when he's outside, certain he has not awoken anyone.  


It’s a cool evening, and it will be even colder in the North. It took some searching before he found a dark, thick riding cloak--no Lannister signals or colors--to fight the winter winds. Drawing the hood over his head, he hopes it will mask his face as he rides out of King’s Landing. No one stops him, no one even looks twice.  


Once he is on the road, it is hard to stop. He keeps remembering her in his tent at Riverrun. How she had ducked her head and untied Oathkeeper from her belt. He wonders how she’ll greet him when he rides into Eastwatch, if it’ll be relief he sees there in her face, or something else; refusal, maybe, or confusion. When they’d last parted, they’d kept to separate sides. He had remained loyal to his family, to Cersei. Yet it was with a conflicted heart he watched as the little boat had pulled Brienne downriver, away from him. It was as though something had caught in his throat and held there ever since.

When he can feel the road in the taut muscles of his calves and the slight ache in his lower back, he stops for the night. Dipping off the Kingsroad, he barely sets up camp before his eyes grow heavy.  


Jaime wakes with a start, the black sky dotted with stars. He strains to listen over the rasp of the wind through the trees. Before he left, he could not allow himself to think too much about how Cersei would react when she finds he’s gone. But now, awake in the dark, alone and away from the main road, he imagines what she may be thinking, now, as she turns over the Keep and finds him missing. Will she send sellswords after him? Will she have him killed on sight if he returns to King’s Landing? It’s all too easy to imagine either option. He worries he has put Brienne’s life in danger by agreeing to help. If Cersei sends men to follow him, to track him, they will find her, too.  


He stays awake, listening, and after a few hours of restless sleep, he rises and presses on.  


*

The vastness of the North surprises him. It has been years since he’s traveled through this part of the country, the last time in the caravan with Cersei and Robert to Winterfell. His hair still golden, his Kingsguard cloak still white.  


Certain he would not be welcomed at Winterfell, he rides past when the castle grows near. But as he grows tired, yawning in the saddle, nothing but pine trees piled with snow in his path, he wishes he had sought warmth there, if only for a few hours.

It is leagues to Eastwatch yet. Reaching a clearing in the woods, he realizes he’s wandered off the road a bit, and is resting on a slight rise, allowing him to survey the path ahead. The patchy gray clouds may stay the snow for a few hours, but he can smell it coming. Never fond of the cold before, now he finds himself embracing it, would reach out and touch it if he could. The vise around his heart loosening. Guiding his horse back to the road, he presses his calves against the animal, urging it faster.  


*

The great wooden gates of Eastwatch are finally within sight. As he travels the long tunnel to the courtyard, the brothers of the Night’s Watch do not hide their surprise in seeing him, gaping and gawking as he rides past. 

“I never thought I’d see it,” one of them mutters, shaking his head. The courtyard spreads before him and he can see her blonde hair gleaming brightly amidst the gray of the snow and the black cloaks of the brothers, her broad, muscled shoulders pushed back. She holds herself in such a regal way, he thinks, not afraid of an inch of her height.  


As Brienne’s gaze finally settles on him, she stops in the middle of whatever she’s saying, her face opening up, changing from indifference to recognition, causing his heart to lurch in his chest. But as quick as it happens, it fades just as soon.  


“Ser Jaime.” She nods. Her greeting is formal, but he’s grateful for it. A reminder they are in mixed company.  


“Lady Brienne.” A smirk pulls at his mouth and he lets it spill over into a smile. He  _ is _ happy to see her. Out of all of them, she is the only one he trusts not to stick a sword in his back.

“Glad you could join us.” Brienne tilts her face up to look at him on horseback and he can see the questions on her face. There is danger before them, life and death, yet his only wish is they have time to talk.   


*

Finishing his second mug of ale, Jaime tips back in his chair, surveying the group gathered as they chatter and needle each other, their conversation mixed in with the sounds of the Night’s Watch around them. He’s seated near Ser Jorah and he’s grateful the older man has only talked of battles tonight. No word of the Dragon Queen or Aerys or why he himself had been exiled. Instinctively, Jaime glances over at where Brienne seems to be deep in counsel with Jon Snow, at least until the ginger wildling interrupts them, most likely making a crass joke as that seems the only conversation he is able to hold. It makes Jon smile, but Brienne’s mouth falls into a firm line, nearly driving Jaime to laughter at her obvious discomfort.  


He stands, his head swimming with ale and the warmth of the hall, and makes his excuses to Jorah, thanking him for his company. As he passes towards the rear of the room, he can feel the heat of Brienne’s gaze on him before he steps outside into the cold.  


Waiting for her, he feels the pull of the empty practice yard. His right arm rarely pains him anymore, but if he closes his eyes, he can hear the singing of metal, the clash of steel, the familiar ache of wanting to flex his right hand and grip his fingers around Widow’s Wail’s hilt, his feet as nimble as they once had been, the taunts and japes jumping to his tongue. Sixteen again. Before Aerys, before Robert nearly sentenced him to the Night’s Watch. What it would be like to live out his days here. To have never met the woman who was crossing the courtyard to meet him.  


He is sharp with a sword and even sharper of tongue, but he can never say what he means with Brienne. He feels dull and slow-witted, as if he dove in too deep, and is struggling to swim up, racing to the surface for air.  


When he opens his eyes, she stands beside him. Her brow, which is always knitted, and her firm, unwavering gaze, are softened from this angle. The moonlight caresses her skin, giving her an otherworldly glow, as she tips her chin to her chest. “It’s cold.”

“I needed to get away for a moment. Needed the quiet. But I suppose it’s always quiet here.”  


She straightens the fur shawl wrapped around her shoulders and his gaze follows her movements. Long fingered and surprisingly gentle hands, ones which can easily manipulate a broadsword, yet are capable of the softest touch. There’s a caring heart underneath all that flint, all that steel.  


“Why did you come, Jaime?” It’s said with such force, a gasp of breath, he can see the cloud of heat escape from her mouth,.  


“Jaime?” he asks hesitantly, but unable to resist teasing. “Not  _ Ser  _ Jaime? Or Kingslayer?”  


“I haven’t--” She starts to object, but he nods beside her, interrupting.  


“I know. You haven’t.”  


“So, why?” Brienne tries again, her voice dipping low, as light as falling snow. She is gentle with him, even when he is rough with her. He is still capable of nudging her into irritation or exhaustion, but finds he wants it less and less, would much rather see her puzzling over his chivalry, his praise.

“Tyrion,” he exhales.  


“I did not think he was the sibling you listened to.”  


They’ve never been on the same side. But Brienne has never held it against him, and he wonders if there’s something else he’s done to hurt her. He thinks of Riverrun, their disagreement. Maybe this is all they are, all they will ever be, two people doomed to follow someone else’s orders.  


He is aware of his faults in listening to his sister all these years, but Brienne can hardly accuse him of indifference or betrayal now. Not when he’s traveled far from his home to protect people who have never cared about him, who wanted him executed for his broken vow, who call him Kingslayer. Jaime strives to keep the ire out of his voice when he speaks.

“Things are different now.”  


“Does Cersei send her army from the south behind you?”  


This is the woman he recognizes. The one who looks for the good in every person, even though the world has hardly given her reason to believe in anyone.  


“Jaime?” Brienne has turned towards him. Her large blue eyes, normally as clear as the summer sky, darken as she searches his face.

“I left. I did not speak with her, I simply…” He trails off, the words stuck in his throat. Cersei is selfish, has never known what it means to try to be good, to  _ do _ good. To have honor.  


“Oh, Jaime.” Her voice is tender. “Come inside,” she tells him and he does not question her, but wishes he could reach for her hand as she leads him through the halls of Eastwatch, before letting him into the small room that is hers for the night.  


When she meets his gaze again, pale blue, guileless, there’s the uncertainty she is able to mask with anyone else but him. He can almost imagine it was always this way between them--their guards low, the promise of trust plain between them--rather than how they’d truly begun; with Jaime goading her with whatever ammunition he could find, and Brienne hardening her heels in the dirt until he relented.  


Now it seems they’ve exchanged this glance a thousand times before, an understanding passing between them, as she looks at him with sympathy and he looks at her for comfort, for an answer. He’s told her things he has never confided to Tyrion, and she still sees the good in him, finds him worth defending, worth protecting.

“I came here because...” To say it was because of her would be like something out of a song, but he bites his tongue, afraid she will scoff at him, or worse, think he’s making a jape at her expense. “I wanted to help, and now I realize-” Jaime stops, taking a deep breath, and runs his hand over his chin, strange still to feel the bristles of his beard.  


“What?” she asks gently.  


He takes a stuttering step backwards, bracing himself to a seat on the edge of her bedroll. “I can never go back.”  


“Oh.” She says, her eyes widening, her breath catching. Brienne unfurls the fur shawl from and unties her cloak from around her shoulders, perhaps to busy herself with something else for a moment, to allow herself to turn away from him. Maybe the realization of what this could mean, what he wants it to mean, is striking her as it did mere moments ago for him. As she turns around, her eyes skate past him, focusing on the fire in the hearth, and his heart sinks. He can tell by the way she can barely look him in the eye, it’s too much at once. “Are you…” her voice tries for the words, a choked rasp, then stronger. “Are you safe?” 

He is fairly certain Cersei’s men were not following him north on the Kingsroad, but would he know if they were? “For the next few days, perhaps. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

“Then you’ll come to Winterfell.”  _ With me. _ He can almost hear it, hanging in the air between them.

“That’s most generous, but I hardly think Lady Stark will welcome me, considering what my family did to her father.”

“She will. She’ll have to. You saved my life. More than once.”  


_ And you saved mine. _ “That was a long time ago,” he sighs. Even from across the room, Jaime can see the hurt pass across her face.  


“Tarth, then,” she suggests. “I can write to my father. He would shelter you.” She’s speaking quickly, as if she fears he might disagree, might insist that returning to King’s Landing is the right choice after all. “We could charter passage on a ship, but as my duty is sworn to Sansa, I would have to return north,. You could stay on the island until the war is over, until-”  


“Brienne.” He interrupts her, standing. She pauses, mouth half open, brow furrowing, eyes searching his face as he crosses to her. Stands so close he could reach out and stroke her cheek. Her eyelids flutter, pale as snow, her gaze dropping away from his.  


This woman carries around her own hurt, but has never failed to take on the emotional burden for others, wanting to relieve them of the weight hung round their own necks by lifting it onto her shoulders. He does not want her to carry his alone. It’s nearly swallowed him whole. He wants to share her burdens, wants to be the person she confides in, the person by her side.

“We’ll speak of it after.” The words are easy, even as he struggles to breathe, as if the only air in the room is between them.  


Finally, her eyes come up to meet his, and he can see the hope in them. He did not turn her down. He did not laugh at her offer.  


He presses a gentle hand to her arm, thumb at her wrist, and fingers wrapping around her forearm to hold her warmth for a moment. To cradle the hope he saw in her eyes. “Good night, Lady Brienne.”  


“Good night,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper, her chin trembling slightly.  


*

The next morning, she stands before him, Oathkeeper on one hip, her sword on the other, and a dagger in its sheath dangling down from her sword belt. She is strong and tall and seems more self-assured with a sword on her hip than she was speaking with him last night. He remembers when he used to feel the same way. He was always more confident on the tourney pitch or in the battlefield than he was at court. Her cheeks are tinted pink from the cold, giving her a soft glow under all of the armor, and she wears the fur from last night around her shoulders. If he didn’t know she could break him in two, he might mistake her for a proper Northern lady. She  _ is _ a proper lady, he reminds himself. A proper lady and a warrior.  


As they set off from Eastwatch, they fall into trios or pairs: Jon and Tormund near the front; Jorah and Gendry; Beric, Thoros, and the Hound. Brienne walks beside him, the snow crunching under their feet. Jaime looks over at her. Somehow the roundness of her cheeks, the way she clenches her jaw, soothes him.  


*

They all stand squinting, snow whipping across the wide, unsheltered stretch of land, as they try to make out the figure moving in the distance. Brienne has a hand on her sword. “What is it?” she murmurs quietly.  


“A bear,” Jon replies. They can see it clearly for a moment. Jaime glances at Brienne, but she’s already looking at him, an offended expression on her face, which nearly makes him laugh.  


Only this bear does not lope along gently. It’s moving at a quick pace and there’s the singing of metal as everyone unsheathes their swords. As the bear hurdles towards them, Jaime cannot seem to tear his gaze away from its icy blue eyes staring him down. He senses movement and voices around him, but he stands frozen, unable to move, even as the bear draws closer.  


A strong arm pushes him out of the animal’s path and he skids, the whole of his chest afire from where it scrapes along the rough ground. When he looks up from where he lands, he sees Brienne in front of it, nearly eye to eye as the bear tries to take a swipe at her. She ducks and strikes back with her sword. “Brienne,” he murmurs, not wanting to tear his eyes away from her, but the others, where are the others? Why is no one helping her? Jon and Jorah are fending off a pack of encroaching wights, while Beric and the Hound are on their knees in the snow, bodies bent over Thoros. He doesn’t have time to locate Gendry or the wildling, he has to get to her.  


Not wanting to break her concentration, he approaches cautiously. Brienne’s sword whistles in the wind. Can she even harm this...thing? He lets out a loud bellow, wondering if the creature will respond in the same way an actual bear might. The bear looks at him. Brienne has turned towards him, too, and for a brief moment, Jaime is terrified his idea has failed. But then one of the bear’s paws takes a step back. Maybe it is working.  


Quickly, Jaime tries to bring himself back to the bear pit. How he had jumped in after her with no weapon and one less hand. What had he used then?  _ Sand. _ He kneels down, careful not to break his gaze with it, and picks up a handful of snow. He tosses it towards the bear’s eyes and bangs his sword against his shield, trying to nod to Brienne as he creates the distraction. She needs no prompting and plunges her sword deep into the bear’s chest. The creature roars in agony as it disintegrates into dust, but not before its paw collides with Brienne’s side. 

He watches as she doubles over in pain. She lands on her knees, then falls to her side into the snow. A moment he’s seen in his dreams, one which has haunted him every night since he sent her away from King’s Landing to find Sansa. Has imagined hearing of her getting injured or worse, in a stupid brawl somewhere along the Kingsroad. The air stolen from his lungs as he awakes, trying to reassure himself of her well-being. The moments she comes across his thoughts and he says a silent word of hope in her name.  


Being there to see it is far, far worse than his imagination. Terror tears at his throat and his knees press into the icy ground as his hand flutters over her body.

Bending over her, blue eyes steady on his. Her hand is pressed against her wound.  


The words on his lips are a comfort more to him than her. “You’re going to be all right. You will. Can you hear me?”

“Jaime.” Brienne touches his cheek for a brief moment so he’ll focus on her. “I’m fine. It’s a scratch.” She lifts her hand from her abdomen and he can see the blood starting to soak through her mail. “I’ve had worse before.”

“I know you have.” They look at each other, smiling with familiarity. “But you’re injured and we may be out here for days yet.”  


Jon and the others have gathered behind him and he can hear them making plans to return her to Eastwatch. “Tormund and Gendry will take her back.”  


“No!” she objects.  


“Brienne,” Jaime warns. “Try not to be so stubborn, for once.” He turns to Jon. “You’ll need them both. They each have two hands, so they should stay. I’ll take her.”  


He turns back to Brienne, who is wincing at the pain. He unravels the shawl she gave him from around his neck, giving it to her to soak up the blood from her wound. “Can you walk?”  


“I’m fine,” she insists, but she doesn’t look fine. Her face is paler than usual and she trembles in the cold.  


“What is it with you and bears?” he teases. Her laugh, low and weakened from her injury, causes a warmth to bloom in his chest, momentarily making him forget the long trek ahead.   


*

Once Brienne’s wound is tended to, and the maester, on Jaime’s advice, gives her a drop of milk of the poppy to help her sleep, he stands on weary legs. Studying her relaxed form, he wishes he could stay, but knows he must return to the group. He may only have one hand to fight with, but it’s why he came. To defend their lives, to defend their future. He presses a gentle kiss to Brienne’s forehead and takes his leave, disappearing into the white landscape beyond Eastwatch’s walls.  


*

Death from him, in him, around him.  


The smell of them--the  _ Others _ \--sends him straight back to King’s Landing, to when he was young and naive and the men’s cries echoed in the Throne Room as the fire burned through their breastplates, then the horrid, acrid stench as their flesh melted away. It makes his eyes sting and shrink back inward towards his skull.  


Inside his chest, his heart swells and aches. Her name is the only word filling him.  _ Brienne. _ If not for her, the thought of her, he might have laid down his sword. They’re surrounded. But no one was ever more worth fighting for. More worth staying alive for. Though he had never said it. Why the fuck hadn’t he told her?  


Tears mingle with snot, dirt, and blood on his face. There’s pain at his temple; he raises a hand to it, fingers coming away with bits of dried blood. It was Brienne who had saved him from being the Kingslayer. It was she who washed his face and changed the cloth around his stump when they were in the Riverlands. She who carried out his word to Catelyn Stark. He has little idea how she managed it, how she managed him. A miracle. It’s her face he sees as they are circled by rotting flesh.  


One of the heaps of bones lunges towards him. He dodges it, but every nerve ending, every fiber and tendon cries out in pain. Dropping to the ground, he rests his head on the icy rock. He smells the wet of the snow and ice. A cleanliness, a relief, after so much death, so much stench. The air seems to warp around him. A hand wraps into his cloak and wrenches him back to his feet again. He stumbles and almost falls when he sees the dragon.  


There is the smell of burning again and he has to close his eyes against it. He desperately wants to flex his right hand. “Go!” Jon is yelling. Jaime glances back and sees him holding off several wights at once, but the Hound is pulling at his arm and tugging him towards the dragon, Daenerys on its back.  


When the dragon lifts off the ground, it feels like an enormous blast catapulting them into the air. He closes his eyes against the wind, concentrates on the feel of it, the cold cutting like knives into his cheeks, and he feels alive again.  


*

By the time the gates of Eastwatch creak open to welcome them, his only thoughts are of her. He needs to see her, to feel her warmth, to tell her. “Jaime Lannister!” The voice comes when they’re barely two feet inside.  


“Uh oh,” Sandor intones under his breath. “Wife’s not happy.”  


Jaime wants to make a quick retort, but then he sees her, halfway down the tunnel. She’s frowning, but he can’t help it, he starts to laugh. Her mouth drops open in disbelief and he staggers towards her, halting mere inches from her, her face full of worry as her gaze travels the length of his body, searching him for blood, for injury. “You left,” she says quietly and then with more bravado. “You went back alone.”

He tilts his head, watching her closely. Above everything else, Brienne understands loyalty. He suspects her anger isn’t about him returning to help. “I had to. They needed me. What would you have me do, abandon them?”  


Her voice rises a little more each sentence she speaks. “You could have been killed, you could have gotten lost, you could be lying out there in the snow, and none of us would know!” Her eyes are bright with anger now, her face splotched, her throat red.  


He can feel his cheeks stretch into a grin and she nearly staggers back, opening her mouth to object, but he reaches for her. When his hand cups her cheek, he can feel her jump under his touch. The irritated look on her face falls quickly to confusion, then his lips are on hers, and he’s kissing her. Kissing her like it’s his dying breath (it nearly was), kissing her like she’s the one who brought him back to life (she was), kissing her like he’s never kissed anyone before.  


When he pulls away, barely an inch, Brienne’s breath is warm against his lips. Her cheeks are colored a bright red, no longer from anger, but embarrassment, surprise.  


“Brienne, I--”  


But she cuts him off, kissing  _ him _ , and his stomach lurches. Sandor lets out a long, low whistle. The other men snicker and make teasing remarks as they wander past, eager to put down their weapons and have a hot meal, a bath, anything to take the stench out of their nostrils. But Jaime pays them little mind, Brienne’s fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck.  


When she pulls back, her eyes find his, and he’s glad to note she’s not looking away now. His chest blooms with a lightness, as if she is physically capable of beating back the darkness, the darkness within him, the darkness he was facing mere moments before she came to be in his arms.  


“How are you feeling?” he asks, realizing how close they’re still standing. Her hands on his arms, his hand on her shoulder. He strokes his thumb gently against her collarbone and watches her throat bob as she swallows.  


“I should be asking you that,” she murmurs, a half smile ghosting across her lips. “But you’re here, you’re safe.”  


“And you should be in bed.” His hand falls from her shoulder, only to take hers, lacing his fingers through his.  


“Jaime-” she starts, but then winces, pressing her other hand to her abdomen. 

“Back to bed,” he instructs her, guiding her slowly through the tunnel and out into the yard.

Helping her into bed, her hand lands on his cheek, and he cannot help but lean into her touch. He wonders if he is capable of loving her the way she deserves to be loved. He tries to stand, but his feet are numb from the hours he’s been on them. “Jaime,” she repeats his name and his chest swells. He would be happy to listen to her voice for the rest of his life. “Stay,” she murmurs, her eyelids growing heavy, her breathing even and deep.  


“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells her. “I promise.” 


End file.
